Trinity of Magic

The tribesmen waited in tense silence as the minutes stretched on, their nervous shuffling and steady breaths the only sounds in the vast tunnel. This was their last moment of calm, their final chance to make peace with themselves. Once the snakes arrived, there would be no more rest—for mind or body.

Some of the younger tribesmen, in their naïveté, even dared to hope the enemy wouldn’t return today. Their expressions brightened as the minutes ticked by. But Frost didn’t share in their delusions. No commander would halt an assault when the enemy was on the verge of collapse, especially not one who had orchestrated this very situation so masterfully.

Instead, he focused on their defensive formation. As usual, the men were divided into three groups: two rotating squads of frontline defenders, one led by him and the other one led by Elder Fang, and a third group of ranged attackers. This third group was made up of the tribesmen with the best control over their ability. Technically, they were the safest among them, but their faces were the most pale and drawn.

Frost wasn’t sure if it was guilt or a sense of duty, but the ranged fighters tended to overcompensate for their relative safety. They pushed themselves to the limit in every battle, casting their magic relentlessly until they passed out. Though he admired their dedication, it was troubling. Caring for them afterward only added to the burden on the survivors.

His thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound, like the scraping of countless sleds over frozen ground. The tribesmen’s expressions hardened at once. They all knew that sound too well, and it haunted many of their dreams.

Frost refocused on the empty tunnel before him. He was leading the first group of defenders, standing at the very front. The time for commanding from the back had long passed—what the men needed now was a strong figure fighting beside them, not a clever strategy. Not that he had one.

The approaching sound grew louder, now accompanied by frantic hissing. Moments later, the first of the snake-like enemies slithered around the bend, spears already poised to strike.

“Brace!”

Frost's orders had barely left his lips when the first barrage of spears flew through the air, whistling through the tunnel. The defenders braced themselves, their ice shields forming just in time, but even the thickest of their defenses couldn’t stop every poisoned projectile.

The Frostscale warriors came in waves, their eyes crazed with battle fury, as if their poison had infected their very minds. They surged forward, not caring for their own lives. Each one focused only on stabbing, throwing, and bleeding the Icefang defenders dry. The casual disregard these men had for their own lives was shocking.

“Fucking bastards,” one of the warriors grunted as he staggered back, a spear sticking out of his side. Frost’s heart tightened, but he said nothing. He had no choice. If he ordered them to rotate early, they would not last until the end of the battle.

Frost easily deflected the projectile hurtling toward him with a swift swipe of his hand, the crude, iron-tipped spear shattering under his strength. These regular troops posed little real threat to him as long as he remained cautious of their poison. But he couldn’t afford to dismiss them entirely. If he were surrounded or caught off guard, even he could fall. It was a frustrating situation—one of the reasons no one liked fighting poison users. Their methods were as dishonorable as they were effective.

Instead, Frost held his ground, cutting down anyone who ventured too close while shielding his comrades as best he could. Unlike him, the weakened tribesmen were in mortal peril, and he cared far more about protecting his brothers and sisters than thinning the endless ranks of suicidal snakepeople. He had long since abandoned hope of winning this war through sheer force alone—or any other way, for that matter.

Holding on was the best he still dared to hope for.

Every minute felt like an hour as the Icefang warriors clashed with their foes, fighting tooth and nail in the narrow space. Blood slicked the icy ground beneath them, mixing with the pale blue of the Frostscale's poison. It was draining and monotonous, but Frost didn’t dare let his mind wander for fear of…

There it was! A black spear hissed through the air, letting out a shrill sound.

“Pureblood!” he bellowed.

Before the cry had even left his lips, Ash was already in motion. His mist-like form slithered from a crack in the cave wall, coalescing into the shape of a man. In an instant, he was behind enemy lines, materializing behind the Pureblood who had dared to expose himself, aiming to strike before the man regained his balance from the throw.

Yet, the Pureblood wasn’t unprepared. Knowing the Mistwalker’s reputation for targeting officers, two Frostscale warriors immediately moved to defend him. In one fluid motion, Ash drew his bone knives, slicing through their tendons. They collapsed without a sound, their gurgling attempts to cry out fading as they bled out. By then, the Pureblood had recovered his stance, ready for Ash’s next move.

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Instead, Ash abandoned the attempt, deciding to slip back into the cracks, invisible once again, before more of the enemies could react.

The momentary break in the attack would have been a chance for the defenders to push forward. But their strength was fleeting—each soldier bore wounds, some more grievous than others, and the poison was spreading faster with every breath.

“Commander, we need to fall back!” somebody called out, his voice strained.

“I know,” Frost growled. His eyes scanned the battlefield; many of his men were severely wounded, and the number of deaths would soon skyrocket if he forced them to hold on any longer.

"Cover fire!" he shouted.

At his call, Gravitas’s eyes flared. She raised her arms, and the air around her glimmered with hundreds of projectiles. Her power was hard to describe, but it appeared to be a deep, invisible force that drew everything to orbit around her at an ever-increasing speed.

Moments after his call, an ear-splitting shriek echoed through the cave as hundreds of metal shards whistled through the air at blinding speed. The first time they had unleashed this attack, the devastation was unmatched. Now, however, the Frostscale warriors had learned to seek cover the moment Gravitas began winding up. Only a few unlucky souls were caught each time, but that wasn’t the point of the attack anyway…

With a roar, Elder Fang took the opportunity and led a charge. His axes tore through the disorganized foes, forcing the Frostscale warriors to retreat. With him, the second group of defenders surged forward, giving Frost a chance to pull back. Carrying two wounded men on his back, he set the example, with those still able following suit as best they could. He wouldn’t leave anyone behind—living or dead.

Ash reappeared further down the tunnel, his misty form drifting from the shadows. He materialized behind a Frostscale captain, his blades finding a target. As the leader gurgled his last breath, confusion spread through the ranks. Ash faded away once more, unseen, as panic began to ripple among the attackers.

A subdued cheer rose from the soldiers, but they all knew this small victory wouldn’t change the inevitable. There would always be more—more poison, more warriors, more captains. The Frostscale snakes would keep coming until the Icefang Tribe was no more.

As his men hurried to tend the wounded, Frost’s eyes locked onto the newly established line under Elder Fang’s command. They had moved quickly, losing little ground in the transition. But their enemies were just as relentless. Frost's heart sank as he watched another warrior fall. He clenched his fists, glancing back at the entrance to Winter’s Heart.

Maybe... he should have surrendered after all. Nothing was worse than watching his brothers and sisters die like this—slowly, painfully, succumbing to the poison, unable to even move. Their sanctum was already filled to the brim with those who could no longer fight, just waiting for their inevitable end. There was no glory in such a death—none at all.

A loud metallic clang reverberated through the cave like a gong being wrung. Frost sighed. Was it already that time again? His eyes once again went to the battlefield, and he saw the Frostscale warriors slowly inching back, giving Elder Fang room to breathe. However, he was well aware that the respite would only be brief.

Footsteps echoed from around the bend—not the familiar slithering of scales on ice, but actual footfalls. There was only one explanation: the Purebloods had arrived.

Razeth and Polaris came into view first, joined by four others of Shassra’s Pureblood children. They casually observed the state of the battlefield before making their way to the front of their troops.

“So?” Razeth called out, standing between the lines of warriors. “Will you negotiate today, or must even more of your people die before you see reason?”

Frost’s heart clenched. At first, it had been easy to dismiss these offers. But after witnessing the suffering of his brothers and sisters for so long, the words pierced him like a dagger. Even so, he maintained his stoic facade as he made his way to the front, joined by some of the Elders halfway.

Razeth's smile widened as he watched Frost approach. “How are your men holding up, Commander?” he asked, not trying to hide his mockery.

“Cut the crap, little snake,” Frost said without a shift in his tone or expression. “What foul offer do you suggest today?”

“Weeeeeeell,” Razeth drawled, surveying the lines of defenders. “Given the state of the war, I can’t, in good conscience, uphold my previous offer. However, there is still a chance for your people to leave this place alive.”

“Spit it out, you slithering bastard,” Elder Fang rasped from beside Frost. The old man had long since lost patience for these little meetings.

Razeth glared at him for a moment before his expression softened. “Is that you, Elder Fang? I almost didn’t recognize you. How’s your heart? Still beating strong?”

Elder Fang frowned. “If you’ve come just to talk nonsense, we can return to fighting.”

“For how long, though? I would be surprised if you lasted much longer, old man,” Razeth teased.

“Enough,” Frost interrupted calmly. “If you don’t have an offer for us, then we might as well do as Elder Fang suggests.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Razeth said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “You wolves are always so impatient. It must be that hot-bloodedness I’ve heard so much about.” After that, he cleared his throat theatrically and raised his voice. He always made sure that everyone could hear the terms he brought. “As before, all members of the Icefang tribe who are still able to leave the mountain will be allowed to do so unopposed. However, you must hand over three individuals: Frost, Snow, and Winter. They need to be alive and in good condition.”

Frost frowned, not out of displeasure with the terms, but because he was genuinely considering them. It would be a shame for little Snow, but Winter was already a corpse, and he, himself, had never expected to leave this battlefield alive. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make for the sake of his people, but…

Could he trust the snakes?

He glanced at Polaris, who was standing off to the side, glaring at Razeth. The man, however, ignored her and focused solely on Frost. Did that mean it wasn’t a genuine offer, or that it was?

“I—” Frost began to speak, but a strange sensation suddenly gripped him, a sense that something was wrong with the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red. He whipped his head in that direction, and everyone else did the same.

Frost’s eyes widened as he saw a young man with blood-red hair that cascaded past his shoulders. The man’s curious golden eyes scanned the surroundings with genuine interest, giving him an innocent, childlike quality. However, when those golden orbs, with their slightly elongated pupils, rested on Frost, he felt a shiver run down his spine.

The young man’s eyes curved slightly as he smiled. “Am I interrupting something?”

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